The Rescue

2

Joe lies on his pad in the Clínica Veterinarea San Francisco de Asís, looking out from his ancient rock-and-iron-grated cell at the blustery winter day.

The clinic director, Dr. Félix Rodríguez, has named him El Perro Disparado, Shot Dog, because, well, he’s been shot, and Tijuana street dogs don’t have name tags, and he has to call the dog something.

Joe has named the doctor Good Man. He understands that Good Man brings the food. He understands that Good Man has done something mysterious to him. That he has a good face. That he scratches good — under the throat and behind the ears — like Teddy and Dan.

On his belly, head resting forward between his trim front feet, his saber tail curving along his hind legs almost to his chin, Joe watches and listens and lets the smells of the world drift past.

The clinic door opens with its clunk and long squeak. Through the rusting bars of his cage, Joe sees Good Man enter the row of kennels. With him is a Woman he has not seen before. From their expressions and bodies, Joe sees that they are not a Team.

Joe has no concept of luck, but the doctor knows that this animal is fabulously lucky to have been brought here by a boy, who, smeared with the terrified dog’s blood and intestinal fluid, carried him over a kilometer in the rain.

But the doctor also knows that luck has two faces: Shot Dog’s miracle rescue and touchy surgery have landed him at the end of his allotted thirty-day adoption period, which expires today. Baja California state policy, beyond the doctor’s control. Shot Dog will be euthanized in the morning unless he is adopted before then, odds that Dr. Rodríguez knows are smaller than small. Not a single prospective dog owner has come by today, and the expected rain bodes ill for a late-hour miracle.

Last week, an elderly man was interested in Shot Dog but had no money. When the doctor offered to waive the modest adoption fee and give him a week’s worth of food, a leash, and some good flea-and-tick pills, the man had promised to return the next day but never came back at all. Rodríguez turns away dozens of dogs every week because his clinic is 100 percent full. He’s even got portable crates set up inside the hospital and lobby, but these, too, are full of yowling, hopeful, pathetic dogs.

It’s been a long thirty-something days for Joe. No Dan. No Team. No work. No play. No meat treats. No sleeping on his couch in the living room or in Dan’s bed when the women aren’t there. No swims in the pool. Sure, his pain is mostly gone, and the itchy stitches, too, and so is the slobbery plastic cone once tied around his neck. But these are small things compared with the immense sadness that seems to run through every part of him. There are memories and there are dreams, dreams of memories and memories of dreams. They are one story. His dog mind is never fouled by time, beginnings, middles, and endings. He knows that Dan will return and they will be the Team again, but the long hours in the cell are wearing him down.

Good Man and Woman come down the walk between the facing rows of cages; then Woman stops. Joe does not like women, because they get Dan’s attention and sometimes even his bed. The Team Bed. The women are not part of the Team. The Team is Joe and Dan.

Now Woman plants a shiny, three-legged tree and screws a black thing onto its flat top. Joe is familiar with these. People have them all the time, mostly to talk to. Sometimes they make sudden strong light. People used to point them at him and Aaron, who was the leader of his Team before Dan. People used to point them at him and Teddy, his first Boy. Teddy then Aaron then Dan. His Teams.

Thirty feet downwind of the humans, Joe registers the familiar bleached-white-coat smell of the doctor, the leather of his new athletic shoes, his musky cologne. He smells the woman’s flowery hair, her female sweat and perfume, and the strong, nose-quivering powder that Dan puts into his morning cup. All of these join the ambient river of scents that has flowed past him for thirty-plus days here at the clinic: car exhaust and street-vendor foods, trash and tire burns, diesel smoke, dog pee and feces and disinfectant sluicing down the walkway slot that runs between the cages, the restaurant food that makes his stomach growl, the climbing roses on the rock wall that separates the clinic from the auto repair shop next door. And much, much more.

Woman aims the black thing at Good Man, then stands beside him. Joe can see that the doctor is worried by the black thing, or it might be Woman who worries him. Not very worried, but a little. Dan is never worried or afraid.

Joe hears their words very clearly, and recognizes some of them, but not nearly enough to understand what they are saying. He never stops trying to understand. His ears are good and he listens to humans very closely. He watches their faces closely too. Woman’s voice is calm. They talk the language of Dan, not the language of Good Man:

“Bettina Blazak here, with Dr. Félix Rodríguez of the Clínica Veterinarea San Francisco de Asís in Tijuana, Mexico. Dr. Rodríguez, thank you so much for sharing your time with Coastal Eddy.”

“I am happy to be here, Bettina.”

“Tell us about the clinic.”

“Yes, of course. Mexico loves dogs. We love them so much that twelve million of them run free on our streets and parks and beaches. They have no owners. No one cares for them. Without government sterilization programs, they breed. Many die of starvation and disease and, in my opinion, of sadness. We have a name for them, perros callejeros. ‘Street dogs.’ All these animals here come from our streets. Our purpose is to find for them a home. This is a great challenge because there are so many dogs.”

“What exactly what is a Mexican street dog? What breeds do they comprise?”

“We like to say they are not a pool of genes but an ocean of genes! Terriers and retrievers of all kinds, collies, boxers, and German shepherds. Spaniels, huskies, Dobermans, Lacy dogs and vizslas, basenjis and pit bulls. Greyhounds, of course, because they race here and later are sold as pets, and what do they do when you get them home? They either sleep or run! There are many small and toy breeds especially popular in Mexico — Xolos, Chihuahuas, papillons, miniature dachshunds and poodles. Even the genes of the legendary Korean hunting dog, the Jindo, have been found in dogs here.”

“What’s the first thing you do when someone brings in a street dog?”

“Food and water. A dog starved once is always hungry. Then medication for fleas and ticks, and a thorough medical examination. Vaccinations. Sterilization is performed. Decayed teeth are removed. We bathe them so they are clean for a possible owner and a home.”

“What do your examinations usually reveal?”

“Starvation and dehydration. Parasites, Erlichia, many viruses. Canine influenza. Skin disease is common. Some dogs have been on the street so long that their toenails have grown through their feet because of no trimming.”

“That’s awful.”

Good Man nods his head and makes a sad face. Joe has recognized the words Dog, Beach — because Dan takes him there — Street, Food, and Water, and he thinks that the word home might mean Crate. Other than that, these two humans might be talking about anything. He understands from their voices that Good Man is serious, and Woman is becoming unhappy.

“It must be very expensive to do all this medicine on so many dogs,” says Woman. “How does the Veterinary Clinic of Saint Francis of Assisi survive?”

“We are partially sponsored by a major North American pet company, and we receive a small amount of funding from the state and city. We ask for a donation when we place a dog for adoption.”

“How much?”

“Whatever the person can pay. We recommend twenty dollars, which includes food, the collar they are wearing, a leash, and one toy.”

“How many dogs do you rescue and place for adoption each month?”

“Adoptions are slow in January, February, and March because of the Christmas dogs whose owners have become tired of them. So they take them somewhere and let them go. No one wants another dog then. In September, when the hot weather is leaving, people want dogs. We place many dogs through December. As presents to make the children happy.”

Joe has no idea what Good Man has said, other than Dogs, Dog, Dogs, and Dogs. The man’s tone is not clear.

“How can our readers and viewers in the United States help?”

Good Man smiles and his tone of voice becomes happier. “There are two things they can do — send donations to us or come to Mexico and rescue one of our beautiful dogs. We take care of all the adoption paperwork right here, and send them home with all their shots. And the little things, the food and the toy. Your readers and viewers will receive a healthy, loving, and grateful rescue animal. They are intelligent, humorous, and very good learners.”

“Dr. Rodríguez, can you introduce me to some of your dogs?”

“Yes, of course.”

Woman removes the black thing from the shiny three-legged tree. They go from cage to cage. When Woman kneels down in front of one, a tan muzzle with a black nose appears through the bars and Woman makes high Woman sounds. She points her black thing at the cage.

“Oh, look at this little cutie!”

Again, her words are lost on the dog, but her meaning is very clear. And to Joe — as well as to his ancestors lying by the fires that first lured them into the world of men — meanings are always more important than words.

Now Good Man and Woman stand outside Joe’s cage, looking down at him.

“This is Shot Dog.”

“What a terrible name.”

“It is more a description.”

“How did he get shot?”

“I don’t know. He was shot and a boy brought him in and I performed a dangerous but successful surgery.”

Woman points the black thing at Joe as she talks: “A boy saved his life. A boy and you, Dr. Rodríguez. This dog has been very lucky.”

“Some people shoot the street dogs for sport. Rather than feed or help them.”

“My readers in California will want to know that,” says woman, still pointing the black thing at him. “They’ll be horrified. Could this have been an accident?”

Good Man’s expression softens and so does his voice. “Anything is possible.”

“Has anyone shown interest in adopting him?”

“An older man, but nothing happened.”

“He’s really cute. The way his ears stick out. How long has he been here?”

“More than the thirty days that I told you about.”

Joe watches Woman lower the black thing. Her expression has changed. She looks at Good Man, then back to him. Her face is sorrow. She does not need words for Joe to understand that something very bad is happening.

“It breaks my heart, too, Miss Blazak. He is already past the limit. It is the policy.”

“Just leave him where he is. In this cage. Simple.”

“Injured dogs are considered bad luck.”

“With all he’s been through!”

The woman kneels near the bars. Joe smells the cinnamon and coffee on her breath and a spilled drop of hot sauce coming from the knee of her pants. He’s used to finding valuable smells, but these are not valuable. He rests his head on his front paws and sighs.

“Excuse me, Doctor.”

Woman walks briskly to the clinic building, turns, brings a hand to her mouth, and looks back at Dr. Rodríguez and Joe. Who understands that Woman doesn’t know what to do. Dan always knows.

Then she’s back.

“May I open the door?” she asks.

“Allow me.”

Joe rises and stretches, then limps out of his cage and into the noose of the doctor’s expertly dangled lead. Joe is long legged, long tailed, and concave like a whippet. He sits before the kneeling Woman and they are almost eye-to-eye, Joe’s brown and Woman’s blue. He reads her face for meanings as best he can. He can’t understand them as he does Dan’s, Teddy’s, or Aaron’s, or other people he has spent more time with. He has never known a Woman well, and never liked the way they take attention away from him. Away from Dan and him, the Team. Same as when he and Aaron were the Team, and when he and Teddy were the Team.

Woman is sad but Joe doesn’t know why. The sadness began when Good Man said thirty days, but Joe doesn’t know what those words mean. Dan is almost never sad. Dan is strong, and fast moving for a human. Sometimes angry, sometimes happy. But not sad. Joe smells her breath and body, under her arms, her legs, her feet and sandals.

She reaches out her stranger’s hand slowly, palm down. Joe decides not to bite it. He has been sore and sad since coming here to the clinic, but his training is to bite only on command. He lets her pet him under his chin. He holds her gaze, and his eyes narrow at the pleasure. Then she strokes his throat, and behind his ears, and gently rubs the raised scar inside his ear flap. On her face Joe sees Woman’s sadness change to something else: happiness. He smells her tear forming before it rolls down her face.

“Señor Rodríguez,” she says. “I came here to do a story on your clinic and adoption center. It will be a good story. And I want to adopt Shot Dog. I will not let him die here. I want to help him heal and get him off these streets forever.”

Good Man looks at Woman, his face filled with happiness. Joe knows that these two people have gone from sadness to happiness very quickly. He taps his tail once, looking at Woman. He thinks he understands what all this happiness means: Dan is coming to get him. They will be the Team again. What else could it be?

“Señorita Blazak, you have just done a wonderful thing for one of God’s own creatures! You will be blessed forever by the Holy Mother.”

“Let’s do the paperwork quickly, before I change my mind. I have to be back in Laguna by late afternoon, and the border will be awful. I’ll make a donation to your clinic, beyond the twenty dollars.”

“I am a very happy médico veterinario and I know Shot Dog will be happy too.”

“I’ll probably change his name.”

“This is your right.”

“I need video of us together.”

In the office, Joe lies under the big wooden desk, his leg hurting but not badly. He’s leashed at Woman’s feet, her bag on the floor beside him. He smells the leather of her sandals, the woman skin of her feet, a medley of flowery smells flowing from inside the bag, and one of the very valuable smells he’s trained to track. He listens to her making pleasant talk with Good Man, and scratching something on paper. From the man’s side of the desk come the same sounds that Dan makes at home when he uses the black slab on his desk. Woman’s hand descends and takes something from her bag on the floor beside him, and Joe smells the money. There isn’t much. Dan would not be happy.

Two men walk in. From under the desk, and judging by their shoes, Joe sees that one is big and one is small. He knows people like these, their jangling metallic sounds, their commanding voices, their smells of leather and gun oil and solvent. They always do what Dan says. Joe does not like police, because they take Dan’s attention away from him, just like women do. They are not part of the Team. So Joe stays where he is, listening, out of sight under the desk where Woman and Good Man sit. He understands none of their fast, unfamiliar language.

“What do you want?” asks Good Man.

“We are looking for a dog that ran away in the North Zone last month. There was a dispute and he was shot.”

“Was it the narcos, or men just shooting dogs for fun?” says Good Man.

“It is under investigation.”

“We have no such dog.”

“We will search the kennels.”

“Of course. Take your time.”

When the police have clanked from the room, Good Man says strong, fast, quiet words to Woman. Dan sometimes gives orders in this tone. It means now. It means important.

Joe hears clunking on the desk, feels a firm tug on his leash, and follows Woman out of the clinic and into the bustling Tijuana streets.

He understands that his world has just changed.